


The Devil's a lie

by DownpourOfFeels



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Dark Sherlock, Discussion of Death/Suicide, Explicit Sexual Content, Gun Kink, Gunplay, M/M, Nervous Sherlock, Praise Kink, Probably too much, Smut, Vulnerable Sherlock, so much self loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 16:09:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7581004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DownpourOfFeels/pseuds/DownpourOfFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you like it?”</p><p>Sherlock enters the room slowly, reaching out and shutting the slightly ajar door softly behind him. There’s only one lamp on. The room is dim and the air smells like cigarettes. It takes his eyes a second to adjust.</p><p>“I chose it specially.”</p><p>Sherlock tries to step forward but falters. He can't tell straight away where the voice is coming from, but there’s no mistaking exactly who it belongs to.</p><p>“Don't look so frightened…” The voice drawls again, lower this time. “I won't bite. Well, at least not yet.”</p><p>Sherlock feels his eyes darting nervously, following the shrill sound of the high-pitched sniggering that follows until he finally catches sight of what he’s been looking for. Yearning for. </p><p>All this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You

**Author's Note:**

> Set before TRF. This is probably the darkest thing I've ever written. It's also my first proper try at Sheriarty, so I hope it's okay. Enjoy!

Sherlock tells himself that he shouldn’t be here.

The clouds above him are rolling like dark waves across the sky. Just as he reaches the footpath the first drops of rain start to fall. It looks like thunder. Perhaps it’s a warning…

But if so he ignores it.

He wanders slowly up the makeshift path. Taking note of the gate, the fence, the length and breadth of the tall white windows that are slotted in beside the building’s pale old brickwork. With every step he takes he marks out another exit. Already planning an escape route. Already formulating a back-up plan.

As he reaches the door, he thinks again that he really _shouldn’t_ be here. That this is a very, _very_ bad idea.

But Jim has CCTV cameras. He has people out watching. _He already knows Sherlock’s here. He’s probably got eyes on him right now._

It’s too late for any doubts.

The world’s only consulting detective inhales a final, slightly shaky breath of the cigarette he’s smoking before stubbing it into the ground with his toe and reaching up to press the flat’s buzzer.

It rings momentarily, and then stops.

There’s an empty silence. Like stale air in an untouched room. Someone should probably talk but Sherlock remains decidedly silent. Because, there’s no point in explaining who he is, or why he’s come. Moriarty already knows the answer to both questions. He’s known them for a _long_ time.

After a moment the door clicks open, and Sherlock pushes past it quickly, beginning to make his way up the winding spiral staircase that he’s greeted with at the end of an empty hallway. He takes the steps two at a time. Not pausing. Not hesitating. He can’t allow time for his brain to remind him yet again that this could be the last journey he ever makes. Instead, he just slides off the damp leather gloves he’s wearing and pockets them, before adjusting his coat collar one last time and flattening down his hair.

It feels like undoing his armour. Finally letting it drop to the floor.

He’s nearing the top of the stairs now, but halts unexpectedly as something suddenly stops him in his tracks. As he holds his breath, it slowly dawns on him that he can hear something.

...music?

He stops himself, rather reluctantly, from going any further and tilts his head sideways, straining slightly until his ears are slowly and unexpectedly filled with some kind of song. It’s the notes of a sweet melody. Faint at first, but as he pushes onwards the sound starts to get louder, clearer. Trickling down the steps and into his ears until all of a sudden it becomes hauntingly recognizable.

It’s Beethoven. Moonlight Sonata.

_His favourite song._

The sound is so unexpected that it takes him off guard. Knocks him sideway slightly. He lets out a shallow breath. Blinking hard to keep the tears from his eyes and instantly trying to calm his now unsteady breathing. It’s already all too much. It’s already swallowing him from the inside out and dragging him under.

_Bit not good._

He tries to steady himself by grabbing the handrail of the stairs, gripping it so hard his knuckles start to turn white.

He’s never been great with the personal stuff.

After a brief moment of unwanted recollection, he scolds himself and blinks quickly, forcing his legs to keep walking. Ignoring the way the notes he once loved were now sending chills down his spine and making his stomach turn sour.

_It's too late for any doubts. It's too late for any doubts. It’s too late for-_

He repeats the words over and over in his head until he nears the final few steps. He can see the door now. He can smell the overwhelming stink of the one and only consulting criminal’s aftershave.

_There was no turning back._

“Do you like it?”

Sherlock enters the room slowly, reaching out and shutting the slightly ajar door softly behind him. There’s only one lamp on. The room is dim and the air smells like cigarettes. It takes his eyes a second to adjust.

“I chose it specially.”

Sherlock tries to step forward but falters. He can't tell straight away where the voice is coming from, but there’s no mistaking exactly _who_ it belongs to.

“Don't look so frightened…” The voice drawls again, lower this time. “I won't bite. Well, at least not yet.”

Sherlock feels his eyes darting nervously, following the shrill sound of the high-pitched sneering that follows until he _finally_ catches sight of what he’s been looking for. Yearning for.

All this time.

Jim Moriarty is sprawled out on a chaise lounge chair at the back of the room, his jet black suit blending in with the shining dark material of the leather. His hair looks a little longer than the last time they met, slicked back from his forehead, matching the straightness of the bow tie fixed at his neck.

“No.” Sherlock says coldly, dropping Jim’s gaze for a moment to spy out the source of the music. He turns he sees that it’s leaking from an old gramophone that’s sat against the back wall of the room, still playing the same melody. The record spinning round and round in endless circles. It wasn’t loud, but as Sherlock sensed the searing heat of Moriarty’s gaze on his back, licking him up and down like an invisible fire, it felt deafening. _Overwhelmingly_ so. This song. The way Jim just _has_ to get under his skin. It is like he is being suffocated. Choked. Slowly deprived of air.

Which, Sherlock supposed, _was_ the point.

“No.” He repeats again as he looks back and returns Jim’s speculative gaze. “I don't like this piece. Not anymore.”

“Pfft.” Jim huffs, rolling his eyes and sitting up a little straighter in the chair. “You're so childish.” His tone suddenly turns disappointed. “You know that? You’re always so hard to please. It's _exhausting_.”

Sherlock says nothing. Instead, he just stares across the room into the black pits of the other man’s eyes, and tries, somewhat, to figure him out. The criminal’s pupils were darker than ever. Black holes in themselves, they were swallowing the usual bronze tinge that Jim’s irises held in the half-light. They were completely black. Bottomless. If Sherlock believed in supernatural creatures he’d say he looked like a demon.

He’s not far wrong really.

“Well don’t just stand there,” Jim pouts, pretending to look at his nails in a rather bored fashion. “I’m expecting a little bit more than _that_.”

Sherlock blinks. _Of course._ He slips off his coat and throws it over the back of a nearby chair, before stepping forward and starting to make his way across the room. Slowly, softly, still feeling his way around the notion, the concept, that Jim is actually lying there in front of him and this is finally the exact moment he’s been waiting for.

“That's it,” Jim slurs. “You're doing really well Sherlock. Most people would have chickened out by now.”

Sherlock weaves his way across to where Jim is. The tap of his shoes on the floor still being drowned out by the music. He stops about a meter away from the chair that Jim’s stretched out on and drops his voice low. Tries _hard_ to sound calm and collected and not like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. “I'm not...most people.” He whispers lowly.

Jim tilts his head from side to side and looks around as if he’s contemplating the question.

"Hmm, I suppose not. But you always were a tricky one, dear. You can figure everything out apart from yourself, isn't that right?”

Sherlock feels himself shudders internally, but plays it off by rolling his eyes and dropping himself down into a chair opposite. “Well, you would know all about that.” He shrugs, cocking an eyebrow and somehow managing to sound bored.

Jim's lips twist up in a smile. “No,” He says simply. “I know _exactly_ what I want...”

Sherlock gulps. It’s the moment they’ve both been waiting for. He’s half expecting Jim to swing his legs off the chair and pounce on him like some kind of feral cat. But he doesn’t. Instead, ever the game changer, he shifts backwards in the chair and runs a teasing hand back through the thick strands of his hair. Slowly sliding his arm right up until his elbow comes to rest casually behind his head. His eyes are shining.

Sherlock’s gaze wanders for a millisecond, simply because he’s not entirely sure _what_ he’s meant to be looking at. But then, as his stare slips instinctively down to Jim’s crotch, he gets it.

He _really,_ gets it.

There’s a gun sticking out of the belted waistband of Jim’s trousers. The silver metal of the handle catching in the dull orange light from the lamp. It’s been there the whole time, just tucked in against Jim’s hip. Ready for _this_ moment.

Sherlock tries to conceal his astonishment, but fails dreadfully, his mouth falling helplessly open before he has any time to clamp it shut, allowing the unmistakable sound of a gasp to escape and fill the room.

“I knew you’d like it.” Jim says in a smug voice.

But he still doesn’t drop his arm. He allows Sherlock’s eyes to wander all over it. Eying it up like a new toy. A Christmas present.

Sherlock bites down on his lip. Feeling lost for a moment as his eyes flicker over the part of the gun he can see. He can’t decide on the make. He’d need a closer look. But it looks like the cylinder is small and can’t hold more than about 8 bullets. Enough to dodge? Unlikely.

“I don’t...” Sherlock chases the stammer away from his voice with a cough. “I don’t… _like_ it. Don’t be absurd.”

“Oh tsk tsk” Jim tuts, trailing his fingertips tactically back down his body as he studies Sherlock with his eyes. Absorbing every reaction, every flicker, as the soft pads of his fingers continue to slide past his collar and down along his lean torso until they come to curl around the handle of the firearm. “Still in denial are we sweetheart? That’s cute.”

Sherlock drags his eyes away from the gun. “I’m not in denial. I’m not-“

“Quiet.” Jim scolds, not even needing to raise his voice to cut Sherlock off. “Look, it’s simple,” Without warning he suddenly pulls the shining silver pistol from his trousers and starts to twiddle it around carelessly in his hands. “Does this turn you on?”

Sherlock swallows. He can do nothing but watch, speechless, as Jim continues to toss the gun in the air once more before sliding it up to the pale pink of his lips. He shoots Sherlock another heated look, checks that he’s watching, and then presses the cold metal barrel against the entrance of his mouth, pushing it in ever so slightly before dragging his upper lip slowly and seductively across the tip.

“No.” Sherlock finally whispers after a minute when he realizes that he still hasn’t answered the question. But really it’s just to fill the emptiness, and just to make it stop because _god._ He can already feel his cock filling out in his trousers. Already hear the sound of his heartbeat starting to drum frantically in his ears.

“Hm,” Jim lets out a little growl of content and he flicks his tongue out again until the barrel is wet, watching as a scarlet flush starts to rise on Sherlock’s cheeks.

But Sherlock can’t stop it. His eyes are back on the gun, staring as it slowly slides in and out of Jim’s pretty little mouth. It's intoxicating. It always has been. The thrill of the unexpected. The thrill of _not being bored._

He hates himself for it.

“It's the adrenaline, isn't it?” Jim coos softly, pulling the gun back out from his mouth and resting it against his lips. “That’s what gets you. Everything else is dull unless there's some danger involved, some _real_ entertainment. Am I right?”

Sherlock shakes his head and tries to look away. But he _can't._

_He just can't._

“Ooh!” Jim chuckles lewdly after a moment. “I never thought I’d actually reduce the great Sherlock Holmes to complete silence! I wonder if anyone will believe me later when I-“

“Stop it!”

Sherlock hadn’t been planning on it but suddenly he’s darting to his feet and leaning over Jim, rage causing his breath to come fuming uncontrollably from his nostrils. So close that he can hear the slight gasp the smaller man gives when he shoves an arm forward and wraps his hand tightly around Jim’s windpipe. With his other fist clenched tightly at his side, he squeezes hard until the colour starts to drain from the consulting criminal’s cheeks.

“Just stop it right now” He continues, the words coming out in an animalistic snarl. “Don’t play games with me.”

“Or what?” Jim manages to choke.

There is another pause. The music clicks off. Sherlock doesn't know whether Jim has planned it or if the song has finally come to its bitter end.

Neither man moves.

Sherlock dosen't remove his hand from where it's clamped around Jim’s neck. If anything, he squeezes harder as their eyes bore into each other. Just staring. Foreheads almost touching, Sherlock’s fiery breath rushing over Jim’s face, his lips. Just looking at each other as if the world is about to end, and perhaps it was. They were connected, the same, so deeply intertwined that it probably should have felt _wrong_.

_All of this should have felt wrong._

But it didn’t. In fact, it felt like the only right thing Sherlock had ever done.

They were like animals. The black jaguar and the arctic wolf tearing each other to pieces. That’s what happens when you get two predators at the top of the food chain and shove them in the same room. The whole thing’s a desperate scramble to come out on top.

And of course, this time, it’s Moriarty who wins. It is he who has the ultimate control. He _did_ plan this after all.

Sherlock’s breath hitches as suddenly he feels the prod of something cold and hard digging into his ribs. He doesn't have to break eye contact to know it is the gun.

“There we are, now be a good boy.” Jim whispers softly.

Sherlock obeys and loosens his grip. He almost debates holding his hands up, but doesn't. Because he knows Jim’s not actually going to shoot him, not yet. Where would be the fun in that?

“Hmm,” Jim purrs as he lifts his other hand and cups Sherlock’s cheek in a gentle embrace, not moving the gun from where it is still trained on Sherlock’s chest, his heart. “So angry today, aren’t we Sherlock? And so very, _very_ desperate.” He pulls the other man’s lower lip down with the pad of his thumb. “But to answer to your kind request, no. I’m not going to stop playing games with you... it’s _fun.”_

“Then please,” Sherlock hears himself almost begging, his voice sounding awfully loud in the now silent room, “Do something, give me something, I _need…_ ”

Jim grins, a devilish smile, all teeth. “You need what?”

Sherlock’s soul sinks, he’d never thought he’d fall this far, crash and burn and come to pieces, right here, in this room, admitting something that he’s never admitted to anyone, not even himself.

But it’s true. It is what he wants. Nothing has ever been more obvious.

“You,” He whispers slowly, “I need you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A smut filled part two will (hopefully) be coming soon. Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments x


	2. Animals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm so sorry it's taken me such a long time to update this, I really am. I won't bore you by listing all the reasons, but long story short I've just been super busy. However, I have been thinking about this a lot and rather than making you wait any longer, I decided to upload what I've got so far and split the story into three (hopefully) not two. Hope that's okay. Thank you so much for your patience and support. It really does mean a lot.

Jim’s only reply is the widening of his pupils, the lick of his lips, as he curls his fist around Sherlock’s shirt collar and pulls him in that little bit closer. So close that now they really are just an inch apart, a whisper. Sherlock’s eyes instinctively flutter shut.

“I’m going to _break_ you.” Jim murmurs, his words landing as nothing but breath on Sherlock’s lips. “I’m going to take you apart, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left. _Nothing.”_ He lets the sound draw out for a long time on his tongue. “Ok?”

Sherlock shivers violently, feeling each word hit him as if they were a physical blow to the chest. His heart is doing backflips, thudding against his ribs, and his throat is like sandpaper - far too dry to attempt speech. So instead, he simply nods blindly, sealing his fate.

After all, he didn’t come here to win. Not this time. Today is about something else. Something that causes shame to go snaking around his body like a green-eyed python. This isn't victory - it's giving in. Submitting. After all this time. It’s _surrender_.

 _“_ See this here?” Jim continues, pressing the cold barrel of the gun a little harder into Sherlock’s chest. “This _pathetic_ excuse for a heart? Well I'm gonna burn it Sherlock. Burn it right out of you. Because right now it’s beating for me. It always has been you see... It’s mine _.”_ He pauses and reaches out to tuck a stray wisp of curly black hair back behind Sherlock’s ear, changing his voice so it suddenly becomes poisonously soft. " _You’re mine._ ”

And this time, Sherlock doesn’t have a chance to think, to breathe, because suddenly Jim’s lips are on his, pushing, needing, _taking_ what they’ve both been wanting so desperately since the very first moment they met.

The kiss is electrifying. Devastating. All that Sherlock ever wanted it to be. His senses go crashing into overload, falling apart with the sudden blur of sensation. It’s explosive. Massively overwhelming. Like the pelting of rain, the boom of thunder, and the flash of lighting happening all at the same time. He can’t keep up.

A series of small moans and whimpers start to flood out from somewhere deep within him but he doesn't try and stop them. They get swallowed by Jim’s mouth. The gun is dropped somewhere between them and immediately Jim’s hands start to travel up to Sherlock’s neck, pulling him in even closer, forcing the kiss to deepen. Clawing desperately at Sherlock’s hair.

It’s like being ripped away from shore by the tide of a stormy sea. Jim’s unpredictable. Unstoppable. A crippling force of nature.

There’s really nothing anyone can do about it.

Jim twists his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and for a moment Sherlock can’t breathe, can’t think, before realising that he doesn’t _want_ to. Jim’s snaking his hand slowly his up his chest and pulling forcefully at his shirt, and part of him wants to resist, it does, but really there's simply no point, and after a moment the detective's defence  _finally_ breaks. The last of his resolve crumbles entirely and at _last_ , he gets swept away, drowns, falls, just like he always wanted to, into Jim’s arms.

Jim shifts on the chair so that Sherlock’s got room to lie more comfortably on top of him. They kiss deeply for a moment more, before he pulls away, breathless.

“Are you regretting this yet?” He sniggers, eyes dancing as if he’s just unlocked the gates to some forbidden heaven.

“Shut up!”

“No seriously,” Jim continues in a daringly provocative tone, “I've never seen anyone full of so much self-loathing,” He runs his hand gently along the outside of Sherlock’s thigh, slowly moving up towards the smooth curve of the consulting detective’s arse. “I can see it in everything Sherlock.”

“Be quiet!”

“It’s in everything you do. It's-”

Sherlock snaps. He plunges forward and silences Jim once again by capturing his lips in another absolutely merciless kiss. It’s rougher than before - more desperate. A brutal mix of taking and giving, pushing and pulling. The downright ruthlessness of it all causing a low growl of satisfaction to come rushing out from somewhere deep inside Jim, and he arches up into Sherlock’s touch, pressing their bodies together and starting to roll his hips.  

Sherlock gasps unexpectedly. The friction of Jim movements bringing a sharp spark heat to his groin. He can already feel the desire starting to build rapidly in his abdomen - which is no surprise since he’s been hard from the moment Jim pulled out the gun. Even the slightest pressure is sending tingles down his spine, making his hairs stand on end. Jim rocks again and this time Sherlock actually shudders, eyes closing as his mouth falls open to let out yet another low groan.

“Oh,” Jim’s smirks as his eyes flicker over Sherlock’s reaction. “How sensitive you are! I mean that’s-” He rolls his hips again.

“Fuck-” Sherlock breathes.

“That’s cute but…” Jim furrows his eyebrows and fakes a slightly troubled expression. “You better not be _too quick…”_

“Oh _do_ stop talking.” Sherlock snarls, working to ignore his sensitivity by focussing on undoing the first few buttons of Jim's shirt.

“Only if you make me.” Jim giggles, but he does hold his tongue for a moment. Savouring the fact that right now he has the one and only _Sherlock Holmes_ sat on top of him, _willingly_ stripping him of his clothes. And oh _,_ how long he’s waited. Years and years of planning, and toying and flirting - it’s all come down to this. One beautiful moment, a memory, something that he _never_ wants to forget. With a sigh, he tilts his head back and takes a second to study the twisted work of art in front of him.

Sherlock's face is crossed with something that for once Jim can't find the words to describe. Flushed and sweaty and rushing to undo the buttons, there's heat, in the darkness of his eyes, and resentment. While the pink of his cheeks tell of years of regret and repressed sexual desires _._ It’s all there , hidden in the tired lines around the detective’s eyes and the slight tremble of his bottom lip. The story of an unhappy childhood. Of never fitting in. A gasping addiction to adrenaline, drugs and distractions. To _anything_ that serves as an escape from his own mind.

Jim can relate of course, but despite what he says he knows that deep down they're not really the same, not entirely. Sherlock hasn't got the stomach that Jim has, or the stamina. He's too weak.

A prisoner of his own mind rather than a master of it.

Jim falls sharply from his thoughts as he feels Sherlock adjust himself on top of him. It appears the detective has finished with the buttons and has now turned his attention to Jim’s belt. His long fingers are nifty, efficient, and he undoes the buckle in a matter of seconds.

“Wait!” Jim interrupts with a start, freezing Sherlock dead in his tracks, “Just hang on a minute. I want to-”

Sherlock looks up from behind his fringe with wide eyes, like a puppy that’s just been shouted at. _Vulnerable._   

Jim takes a mental snapshot.

“What?” Sherlock demands, and in an instant the look has faded. His lips have set back into that usual, hard line.

“Well nothing,” Jim lies, secretly satisfied with the memory he’s just saved, “It’s just, try to undress me with a _bit_ of grace my dear. We’re not animals.”

“Aren’t we?”

Jim rolls his eyes and leans up to Sherlock’s lips. By way of demonstration, he pulls on the lower one with his teeth. Tantalisingly slowly, teasingly, until he finally gives in and pushes his tongue into the heat of Sherlock’s mouth. It takes a moment, but soon the genius learns, and Sherlock starts to respond with the same slow, lapping motion.

The heat sparks again. Time starts to jump forwards.

Sherlock’s unsteady hands come to grasp at Jim’s neck and shoulders, registering every dip and curve before storing it away in the deepest and most precious part of his mind. He feels his way down Jim’s bare chest, fingers trailing until they come into contact with the cold metal belt buckle once again.

“May I?” He asks in his sweetest, most patronising voice.

“I suppose,” Jim mumbles as he steals another quick kiss. He’s strayed from Sherlock’s lips and begun working on his utterly breathtaking jawline and smooth expanse of neck. It’s criminal how perfect Sherlock’s skin is. Pale as a sheet and dotted with the prettiest of freckles. Jim makes a silent vow to suck a hickey into each and every one. He starts at Sherlock’s pulse point, nipping and biting, making sure he draws every single ounce of blood to the surface.

“Don’t.” Sherlock whines about two seconds in.

“What? This?” Jim makes an effort to suck even harder.

“Yes I said don’t!” Sherlock pulls away sharply and sits back on his knees. For the first time since they started he drops Jim’s gaze and stares off across the room.

“Why?”

A hint of guilt flashes over Sherlock's flushed features. He dips down and hides his face in the crook Jim’s neck. “John.” His whispers quickly. “He will see it.”

“Oh...” Jim lets out a long sigh. “Well actually I did know that but it’s nice to hear you say it anyway. I take the little doctor pet doesn't know you’re here?”

“Of course not.” Sherlock practically growls through his teeth. “He’d kill me.”

The room falls silent.

“But,” A twisted smile suddenly spreads itself out on Jim’s lips. “What if he didn’t have to?” He pulls the gun out from somewhere between them, and in one quick movement he’s got it pressed up to Sherlock’s throat, right underneath his chin.

Sherlock flinches.

“It would be so easy…” Jim says in a slow, low voice, the words dripping from his tongue like acid. “Wouldn’t it?”

“Put that down.” 

“Oh,” Jim whines, “But I thought we established that you _liked_ it?”

“No.” Sherlock fights fiercely to maintain his calm. “I...I...oh god.” His words fall short as an electrifying tingle shoots itself down his spine.

He just can't handle it. Everything is buzzing. Radiating out of control. Right now he’s only an inch from death, a step from the clifftop, and it’s incredible, it really is, because he’s never been more turned on.

“Shh, shh.” Jim coos, as he cocks the gun and pushes it even harder into Sherlock's throat, easily hard enough to leave bruises. “Just let me do the talking…” He tilts Sherlock's head up using the tip of the barrel and pushes so that Sherlock is forced to sit up straight on top of him. He reaches for the detective's belt buckle.

“Oh...”

Sherlock can do nothing but look at the ceiling as Jim groans quietly and slides down his trousers. He pushes them as far as he can down Sherlock's thighs before beginning to palm at the bulge at the front of his boxers. “Well,” He says cooly, “Bigger and better than I expected to be honest.”

Surprisingly Sherlock doesn’t find it hard to hold his tongue. His knees feel weak, and the room has started to spin. He never expected that being touched like by Jim would affect him _this_ badly. He's incredibly out if his depth, far, _far_ from in control.

And Jim’s clearing getting off on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I know that was kinda a crap place to pause and it wasn't very long, but I still hoped you liked it. Please feel free to tell me what you thought, for feedback is what keeps me writing! Thank you <3 If you want to follow my writing more closely then I am @221bsherlockfandom_ on Instagram.


	3. Try me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Animals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Here it is, the final chapter of this fic. I really hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The consulting criminal lets out a slow growl as he hooks his arm around the back of Sherlock's neck and pulls him in. Relief flutters in the detective’s chest as the gun slips from Jim’s fingers and falls to the ground.

"See Sherl” Jim titters, “I knew you'd like this. All those secret encounters with those boring, _boring_ people.” He slides both his hands under the waistband of Sherlock’s boxers, “I bet they were nothing on this? Hm?”

Sherlock can only respond with a moan, his eyes rolling backwards as Jim finally wraps an agile hand around his cock and begins to stroke. His palm moving in a slow, steady rhythm.

It’s like a match striking against a wall. Two stones being scraped together. There are sparks flying in all directions.

Sherlock feels his limbs melt into Jelly. He gives up on thinking and collapses his face into Jim’s shoulder, tries solely to focus on the physical sensation. Desire crashes like stormy waves in his stomach - impossible to control.

“Oh…”

But Jim _knows_ this. Can sense when he’s stoking the fire too much. After a minute he slows his hand and lets his grip go soft. Slides Sherlock's foreskin gently past the tip and waits until the detective's breath hitches before pulling it smoothly back down again. Surfacing that perfect edge between pleasure and downright dissatisfaction. It’s the most frustrating thing Sherlock has ever experienced. It’s torture.

“Please,” He gasps desperately. “Faster,”

But the words get jumbled _,_ slurred _,_ as he starts to fall apart in Jim skilled hands. The groaning becomes involuntary. His hips start to thrust forward on their own accord. He _needs_ to get more friction, more pace. He’s so close. He’ll do _anything_ to increase the pressure. Anything to bring him closer to-

“Stop.” Jim suddenly withdraws his hand and pushes Sherlock roughly off him. “Don’t come.”

“But…” Sherlock slumps clumsily backwards, his hands struggling to find a grip on the leather chair. Everything is spinning. “Please,” He begs. “Don’t stop now, I was-”

“Don’t speak.” Jim orders, his cold eyes sneering down at the sweaty dishevelled mess of a man in front of him. “Take your trousers off and get on your knees, by the chair there. Now.”

Sherlock has the sudden urge to scream, to cry. To punch the pillows until his knuckles turn blue. His cheeks flame with shame. Why does Jim always have to play games? And why does he always go along with them? It makes his hands tremble with anger.

Yet, as much as much as it pains him, he knows he’s not going to rebel now. Not a chance. Not when his cock is throbbing heavily beneath him. He can’t bear to waste another second, another moment. He’s simply _too_ desperate.

He lifts his legs and slides from Jim’s thighs. It only takes a moment to kick his trousers from his ankles and drop down his knees. He tilts his chin up expectantly.

“Hands behind your back.”

Sherlock obeys. There's blood rushing past his ears. Adrenaline tingling in his veins, flooding his entire system. He can think about nothing other than touching his cock.

“Don’t look down.” Jim snaps, before flinging his legs off the chair and starting to unzip his trousers. He drops his voice an octave, slides a finger across Sherlock’s pale lips. “Now that was nearly very selfish of you Sherlock.”

Sherlock can sense from Jim's dark tone where this is going. He knows better than to speak.

“You were gonna let yourself come then, weren’t you?”

The detective purses his lips.

“Weren’t you!”

Jim stands and lands one hard blow across Sherlock’s angular cheek. So sharp it stings.

“Yes,” Sherlock lets out a gasp. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“Jesh,” Jim sighs and leans back, suddenly all business. “So self-centered you are, this is a two-way street, Sherlock.”

Sherlock dips his head, and Jim smiles slyly to himself before sliding his fist into Sherlock’s curls and tugging the detective’s head towards his groin. His trousers slip down his slim waist with ease and he dips his hand into his boxers. Presses the hard tip of his cock against Sherlock’s lips.

“I think it’s high time you stopped fucking everyone over with your narky comments and stupid deductions and started giving something back.”

Sherlock lets the world go blank as Jim’s cock slips into his mouth. It's nothing unexpected, and Sherlock’s not exactly a beginner. He closes his eyes and sucks firmly with his cheeks, causing hollow dips to appear beneath his cheekbones. The room fades as he swirls his tongue around the tip, pauses at the right moments, licks up and down, even lets his mouth travel down to the other man’s balls.

When he next looks up Jim’s eyes have slanted. Small amounts of sweat is starting to prick on his forehead, and his breath consists of short, sharp gasps. It's wonderful.

“Oh god.” Jim bites down hard on his lip to stop himself from groaning. “I knew you wouldn't disappoint me with this. You’re like a little puppy, always so eager to impress, so-”

Sherlock thrusts forward and takes Jim’s cock as deep as his can, so far that it touches the back of his throat. He widens his eyes and looks up, his expression one of pure innocence.

“Uh," Jim moans, his voice thick with arousal. "Such a beautiful slut.”

The act lasts about 3 seconds before Sherlock's has to pull back, gagging uncontrollably. He’s about to get back to it when Jim tugs on his hair and stops him.

“I want you to fuck me.” He states, a hand dropping down from Sherlock's hair to squeeze his cheeks. He slides a finger into Sherlock’s mouth. “Do you think you can handle that?”

The honest answer is no. Sherlock’s always been much more of a receiver than a giver, and judging how things are going so far he’s not sure he’s going to last anywhere near long enough for it to start feeling good for Jim.

The detective shakes his head. “I...I-” He pauses as he tries to find the right words, his eyes drifting to the floor in shame. “I won't be able to last…”

Jim laughs loudly, a cruel cackling laugh, one that sends shivers shooting down Sherlock’s spine.

“Well then, it looks like you're going to have to make an effort, and anyway…” Jim nudges the gun from where it lies on the floor next to his foot, the movement causing the silver metal to catch faintly in the light. “Do you really think you have a choice?”

A wave of arousal rolls in Sherlock’s stomach. There is no doubt that this could be an absolute disaster, that Sherlock could get as far as working in the tip and then fail entirely to control himself. Because he’s so wired up right now, so high on the thrill of it all that it _could_ happen. But then, Jim would just punish him again, wouldn't he? And surely the consulting criminal would be a bit more imaginative this time…

It was a win-win.

“Okay,” Sherlock nods, pink-faced, “I’ll try.”

Jim crouches down and wraps a hand tightly around Sherlock’s neck. “Yes you _will_. You’ll learn to control yourself Sherlock, or I'll make sure you regret it.”

Sherlock fakes a flinch but really his eyes are shining. He doesn't bother with a reply. Instead, he leans upwards and slides his tongue between Jim’s lips, trails his hands along the smooth surface of Jim’s back and gropes his arse, scrunching his fingers around the plush expanses of skin.   

Jim uses the force of his hand on Sherlock's neck to direct them both upwards - still kissing - back to the comfort of the lounge chair. The leather squeaks slightly as their naked bodies fall back against it. Sherlock lands on top. Jim shifts and wraps his legs around Sherlock's waist. Their cocks rub together. Creating a palpable friction. Slipping and sliding against each other easily. Aided by Sherlock's precome.

They continue to grind against each other lazily for a few minutes, Jim still making the world fall apart inside Sherlock's mouth. Steadily the kissing turns sloppy, dissolves into gentle nipping and biting. It’s almost affectionate, warm, and Jim slowly feels his brain start to cloud over with the one thing he _does_ fear. Alarm bells ring faintly in the back of his mind. This isn’t good. He can’t let things get all sticky and sentimental, that won’t do when the time comes to-

“Sherlock,” He hisses, “Are you gonna get on with this or not?”

“I thought you were supposed to be telling me what to do.” Sherlock protests innocently, sliding a coy finger into the corner of his mouth.

Jim fights the urge to roll his eyes, “Well of course, but I thought this part would be fairly obvious. You’re the one who is meant to be the genius detective, I mean - oh.”

He’s cut short when he suddenly realises Sherlock is snaking his hand all the way down to his most private parts, his damp finger coming to circle Jim’s arsehole lazily.

“Good,” Jim sits up on his elbows and lets a devious tongue slide across his lips. “Very good. Now-”

Sherlock stifles Jim’s words by dipping down and forcing his tongue back into the consulting criminal’s mouth. He pushes Jim’s head back against the chair. Still rotating his finger until he finally relents and pushes it in as far as it will go. Jim lets out a slow groan.

“Oh, you are a good boy.”

Jim shuts his eyes as Sherlock starts to move his hand. The movements are firm. Precise. Sherlock’s obviously done this before.

“And there was me expecting you to be a basic beginner.”

Sherlock sucks red hickeys into Jim’s neck. Speeds up the movements of his hand. It’s not long before he decides to wiggle two fingers in.

“There’s lube in the dresser - over there.”

Sherlock untangles their bodies and leans across to the dresser to the right of the chair. It’s dark oak, luxurious, beautifully carved with swirls of traditional gold paint lining the top. He pulls the drawer open and scoops up the tub, unscrews the top and slicks his fingers.

Jim’s dark eyes never leave him, watching. They appear to be gleaming in the half light. Sherlock wonders if he’s ever been this excited.

He climbs back on top and retakes his previous position. Jim hooks his ankles together behind Sherlock’s back.

“Now, slow…” He teases. “Gentle. Too fast and you’ll be gone. And it really would be good if you could last at least five minutes…”

Sherlock focusses on taking several deep breaths. He opens Jim up a little further with his fingers before replacing them with the tip of his cock.

Jim moans softly, his whole body trembles with anticipation. He bites his lip.

“Ok, and now…”

Sherlock looks up and meets Jim’s gaze as he pushes forwards. The movement is slow, calculated. He gasps. Sinks in a little further, starts to move back and then -

It’s like a lightning strike. A hurricane. A tidal wave of unimaginable chemicals overtake his body. His brain floods with pleasure. Jim gasps beneath him.

“Oh god,”

Sherlock starts to move forwards again, thrusts his hips. Harder. Faster. They fall into another merciless kiss. It’s so _good._ So satisfying.

Sherlock starts to build a rhythm. The room fills with the sound of their skin slapping together. It’s ecstasy. Pure and bright. Jim’s so _tight…_ the noises he’s making are already so desperate, that after a minute or so Sherlock can feel himself nearing the edge.

“Uh,” He starts to slow his thrusts. Starts to make them hard and deep. Primal.

Jim’s already wrapped a hand around his cock. A shade light pink appearing on his cheeks. “Faster, Sherlock.” He demands breathlessly. “Don’t slow down.”

Sherlock lets out a growl of frustration and starts up again. He leans forward and slides his fingers into Jim’s hair, reangles his hips.

His whole body is shaking. His vision starts to waver before him. It's absolutely intoxicating. Nothing - not the hardest drugs or the most exhilarating cases - has ever felt this good.

“Oh god Jim, oh fuck…”

Words slur uncontrollably from his mouth. He starts babbling. Gasping. Sweat pours down past his temples.

“This is so good.” He pants, “This is so _fucking-”_

Jim flicks his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth. Starts to scratch raw lines along Sherlock’s back with his nails.

“Still regret this?”

“No,” Sherlock’s words are more of a groan than a response. “No no no,” He speeds up his hips. He’s close now, nearing the edge. Walking the tightrope. Every thrust is another step forward. He can’t slip...can’t let himself fall...not until he’s told to…

“Jim…” Sherlock whines, “Are you nearly….I think I’m going to…”

Jim senses Sherlock’s desperation. He quickens the movements of his fist. Pumps at his cock. Surfacing the perfect edge of the pleasure. He wants to punish Sherlock for being so out of control, wants to slap him silly, but the truth is, he’s nearly there too…

“Oh god,” He shuts his eyes. Starts to push back against Sherlock’s thrusts. The world becomes a black mess of sensation. “Hold on, we’re nearly there...just... tell me something.”

Sherlock angles his hips higher upwards, a position he knows is sure to hit Jim’s sweet spot. “What?” He gasps.

“How long have you wanted to fuck me?”

Sherlock feels lightheaded, dizzy. He just wants to _go_. To crash and burn. To slip his footing. “Oh god always." He gasps. " _Always_. Ever since we met at the pool, and after at the court case. I just wanted to find a room and shove you up against a wall and just... fuck you senseless. Your mind, it’s so-”

“Oh…” Jim starts to pump his fist harder, arch up into Sherlock's chest.

“So clever - like me. You understand - _finally -_ what I need - I knew you would - and you, you - oh god.”

Sherlock’s nails dig into Jim’s flesh. “Can I come now please? _Please_?”

And there it is. The confession Jim's always wanted. He finally lets himself go, fuelled by Sherlock’s words, by the detective’s cock pumping deep inside him - by all of this. _Finally_ , this is something he wants. Something to live for. Something he’s worked so _hard_ to get.

“Yes,” He gasps, “You can-”

But Sherlock has already let himself go, shattered like a shard of glass. He falls to pieces in front of Jim, breaks apart. He gasps and shudders, groaning uncontrollably.

“Oh, oh god…”

He collapses forwards. His cock pulsing deep into Jim's body. And it’s that very feeling that tips Jim over the edge too.

“Fuck-”

They cave into each other. Both panting fiercely. A chaotic mess of emotions and endorphins. A beautiful storm. A natural disaster. Sherlock buries his face in Jim’s neck. The dull heat of Jim’s come sticks between their bodies.  

The room quietens. They lay silently for some time, entwined in each other. Skin against skin. Sherlock’s chest rises and falls. His brain fuzzes and fries. Jim traces lines on Sherlock’s back, grinning.

It’s the biggest high he’s had in ages.

“Well, I hope that was up to your required standard.” Sherlock finally murmurs.

“Mmm.” Jim contemplates the question for a moment. Sherlock rolls off and curls into his side. “I’ve had better.”

“Oh, piss off.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches up into a small smile. “That was brilliant, admit it.”

“Better than I expected,” Jim replies in a half amused voice. “I’ll give you that.”

Another silence blankets them, and gradually the room seems to grow cold, emptier. Quieter. Causing the hair to stand up on Sherlock’s arms. The chemicals slowly drain from his brain, like rain running through the cobbles of a street. Slowly but steadily guilt starts to roll quietly in his stomach. A pang of regret. Emptiness. Jim stops tracing lines on his skin. The consulting criminal sits up slightly and reaches for the dresser. He takes out a cigarette.

“Want one?”

Sherlock doesn’t meet his gaze. A million doubts are beginning to infiltrate his senses. Tingle strongly in his nerves. It’s the beginning of a comedown he knows only too well.

He dips his head.

Jim slides another cigarette from the packet and places it carefully between Sherlock’s lips. He strikes the lighter.

“You know,” He says softly, taking a long drag. “I am still going to kill you“

“I know.”

“Do you want me to tell you how I’m going to do it?”

Sherlock eyes the gun on the floor. He blows out a long cloud of smoke in front of him. “Not really. Where’s the fun in that?”

Jim smiles softly. His eyes dance, glowing dimly in the orange light.

There's another long silence, and then, nonchalantly, Jim reaches out and tilts a finger under Sherlock’s chin. “Ok I won’t." He whispers. "Not yet. But you’re gonna love it.”  

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. He finally turns and looks Jim in the eyes. “Try me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animal  
> You’re an animal  
> Don’t take anything less
> 
> Out of control  
> You’re out of control  
> Strike those in distress
> 
> Analyse  
> Advertise  
> Expand  
> Bend more rules  
> Buy yourself an island
> 
> Animals  
> We’re animals  
> Buy when blood is on the street
> 
> Out of control  
> We’re out of control  
> Crush those who beg at your feet
> 
> Analyse  
> Franchise  
> Spread out  
> Kill the competition  
> And buy yourself an ocean
> 
> Amortise  
> Downsize  
> Lay off  
> Kill yourself  
> Come on and do us all a favour
> 
>  
> 
> (Muse - Animals - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFG_5PBl2K8 )
> 
> It feels so nice to finally get something finished. The next chapter will be a selection of deleted scenes paragraphs that didn't make it into the final cut. Thank you so much to everyone who has read this and said nice things. I am eternally grateful. Your support means everything.


	4. Deleted scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a short section of deleted paragraphs I wrote (usually on the bus or the train when I wasn’t entirely focused) and was sadly unable to fit into the final work. I hope you find some of them amusing/interesting. I’ve also included my go-to word bank for these specific characters, for any aspiring writers, as I know I would have found that sort of thing very useful myself a year ago. Enjoy!

The room suddenly fills with the sound of Sherlock’s ragged breathing. He tries desperately to calm it. He must have looked a state, standing here like a stroppy child, his hands starting to tremble violently at his sides, his cheeks flushed with a dark shade of scarlet. So dangerously furious yet incredibly desperate all at the same time.

 _Oh,_ Jim smiled, _it was delicious._

“Alright!” He pretends to squeal, mocking Sherlock with his eyes as he drops the gun into his lap and throws his hands up into the air in a false act of retreat. “Don’t get angry with me,” he whines slowly, “Oh Sherlock _please_ , forgive me…I’m so sorry _daddy_ , I’ll be your good little boy I’ll-“

“Stop it.” Sherlock repeats again, fighting a battle just to keep his voice level. “Stop talking like that, I don’t like any of that stuff, I just want-“

“What?!” Jim gasps, suddenly sitting up in his chair, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “You want what?! Go on, say it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I’m not going to force you Sherlock..." Jim grins. "That’s not what this is about. You brought yourself here. You climbed those steps. You do want this, don’t you? So go on…” Jim drops his voice low, a throaty whisper. “If you won’t say it then take it. Take what you want.”

Sherlock hesitates. He moves towards Jim but then stops himself, just inches from the smaller man’s lips.

“Go on…” Jim prompts.

Sherlock gulps. “I didn't know that you’d have a gun.”

“ _No,_ but you're pleased that I do” The smaller man giggles. “It's much more fun now, isn't it? All of this.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Oh come now, love and hate are just the same things.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow. “Can we please stop talking about emotions-“

“No.” Jim snaps. The sharpness of his voice making Sherlock flinch. “I’m rather enjoying it. Think about it Sherlock, darling, jealously…rage…” He presses the gun a little harder against Sherlock’s ribcage. “… _murder_ …it’s all the same really. What was it you said? That love is a much more vicious motivator? Well,” He flashes a chilling smile, all teeth. “Just this once you were right.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jim stares lazily into Sherlock’s eyes. “Your pupils are dilated.”

Sherlock sigh and resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“What was it you said to Irene? Shows attraction or something.”

“You know exactly what I said,” Sherlock says lowly.

“Well...admit it then.” Jim teases. He traces the pad of his finger across Sherlock's cheek.

“Admit what?”

The consulting criminal raises his eyebrows.

“It means I'm attracted to you.” Sherlock finally huffs. “Ok? I find you physically attractive.”

“There we go!” Jim coos, “That wasn't so difficult was it?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jim pulls Sherlock's face towards him and they fall into another kiss, but it’s softer this time, almost sloppy, affectionate. He spends time devouring Sherlock’s jaw line, before planting small and steady kisses on the detective's forehead. Treasures him. Just for a moment.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's amazing, incredible. Jim is clearly a very experienced and talented man, but it's still not quite...enough.

“Jim,” Sherlock manages to pant, “Please can you...you know-”

“Suck you off?” Jim buts in helpfully.

“Yes,” Sherlock groans, “That.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“John doesn't know about this either does he?” You can pretend I'm him if you like, if that makes things easier…”

“No,” Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, “I don't want that, I just-”

"Oh, he's going to be so angry when he finds out. His face! He'll probably kick the furniture or something. Or hit you! Bet you'd love that wouldn't you? Little pain slut. I might have to bug your flat with cameras just so I can watch." 

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Is it normal for people to talk so much during sex?" Sherlock hisses sarcastically.

"No." Jim admits with a smile, "But when have we ever been normal?"

Sherlock pulls a face.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Word bank for Sherlock/Jim:

Grinned

Shrugged

Giggled

Hissed

Cackled

Pouted

Snarled

Whined

Flitting

Snapped

Snorted

Tittered

Drawled

Sneered

Sighed

Smiled

Gasped

Whispered

 

* * *

 

 

And finally another relevant song for those interested in that sort of thing. 

 

I torture you  
Take my hand through the flames  
I torture you  
I'm a slave to your games  
I'm just a sucker for pain  
I wanna chain you up  
I wanna tie you down  
I'm just a sucker for pain  
  
I'm a sucker for pain  
I got the squad tatted on me from my neck to my ankles  
Pressure from the man got us all in rebellion  
We gon' go to war, yeah, without failure  
Do it for the fam, dog, ten toes down, dog  
Love and the loyalty that's what we stand for  
Alienated by society, all this pressure give me anxiety  
Walk slow through the fire  
Like, who gon' try us?  
Feeling the world go against us  
So we put the world on our shoulders  
  
I torture you  
Take my hand through the flames  
I torture you  
I'm a slave to your games  
I'm just a sucker for pain  
I wanna chain you up  
I wanna tie you down  
I'm just a sucker for pain  
  
I been at it with my homies  
It don't matter, you don't know me  
I been rollin' with my team, we the illest on the scene  
I been riding 'round the city with my squad  
I been riding 'round the city with my squad  
We just posted, getting crazy, living like this is so amazing  
Hold up take a step back, when we roll up, cause I know what  
We been loyal, we been fam, we the ones you trust in  
Won't hesitate to go straight to your head like a concussion  
I know I been bustin', no discussion for my family  
No hesitation, through my scope I see my enemy  
Like what's up? Hold up, we finna re-load up  
Yes I re-load up, I know what up, I know what up  
  
I torture you  
Take my hand through the flames  
I torture you  
I'm a slave to your games  
I'm just a sucker for pain  
I wanna chain you up  
I wanna tie you down  
I'm just a sucker for pain  
  
I'm devoted to destruction  
A full dosage of detrimental dysfunction  
I'm dying slow but the devil tryna rush me  
See I'm a fool for pain, I'm a dummy  
Might cut my head off right after I slit my throat  
Tongue kiss a shark, got jealous bitches up in the boat  
Eating peanut butter and jelly fishes on toast  
And if I get stung I get stoked, might choke  
Like I chewed a chunk of charcoal  
Naked in the North Pole  
That's why my heart cold, full of sorrow, the lost soul  
And only Lord knows when I'm coming to the crossroads  
So I don't fear shit but tomorrow  
And I'm a sucker for pain, it ain't nothing but pain  
You just fuckin' complain, you ain't tough as you claim  
Just stay up in your lane, just don't fuck with Lil Wayne  
I'mma jump from a plane or stand in front of a train  
Cause I'm a sucker for pain  
  
Used to doing bad, now we feel like we just now getting it  
Ain't got no other way so we started and finished it  
No pain, no gain  
Never stand down, made our own way  
Never going slow, we pick up the pace  
This is what we wanted from a young age  
No emotion, that's what business is  
Lord have mercy on the witnesses  
  
I torture you  
Take my hand through the flames  
I torture you  
I'm just a sucker for pain

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vflvKljxPas) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you for reading. You can contact me with requests or whatever else (literally anything, say hi!) on my Instagram acc @221bsherlockfandom_  
> I hope to write some more Sheriarty soon, it's been a real pleasure.


End file.
